The Virtues of Being a Winchester
by May Glenn
Summary: Birthday fic for ArielButtercup. Some shameless whumpage and hurt!Sammy and big brother!Dean, with very little plot to get in the way. Usual rough language warning in effect.
1. Prudence

_**A/N: This story comes at the request of my dearest ArielButtercup, who celebrates her birthday today! :) Yay! Happy Birthday, babe! You always will be the Sammy to my Dean!**_

_**And even as I wander**_

_**I'm keeping you in sight**_

_**You're a candle in the window**_

_**On a cold, dark, winter night**_

_**And I'm getting closer than I ever thought I miiiight…**_

—_**Oh, sorry. Heard it somewhere, can't get it out of my head. ;) **_

_**Anyway, Ariel requested a story where Sammy is hurt and Dean is the big brother. She also requested Sam be delirious and feverish and a little funny. But she also wanted him lost, hurt and alone first, and that's unfortunately where we start. Don't worry, though—Dean will come to the rescue soon enough! **_

_**It's also thanks to Ariel that I'll be finishing up my crack!fic of negotiable hilarity "Like Cats and Dogs" hopefully around Christmas, but certainly by the time I start school again…otherwise it'll never get done!**_

_**This story happens some time before Sam leaves for Stanford. **_

…

_**PRUDENCE**_

…

Sam Winchester liked learning things. He liked reading, looking things up, learning about things by researching them. He liked school. He loved libraries. His brand new laptop—Dad's eighteenth birthday present to him—was his most prized possession. Sam _loved_ learning.

Sam, however, _hated_ learning anything _the hard way_.

Take Black Dogs, for instance. Dad's journal, a few old tomes from library basements, and the occasionally-reliable internet helped him build a fairly straightforward MO for these things: Slimy, amphibious dog-like apparitions. They could occupy a corporeal or incorporeal form; or else they could teleport, but "scholars" were divided on this issue. They could be killed by ordinary means, but the trick was getting them to hold still. Usually they had to be focused on a hunt or a piece of meat. They traveled singly or in pairs during mating season (early to mid-October). Native to the British Isles, they traveled wherever ships could take them, much like rats. They were nocturnal by nature, although there had been sightings of them in the early morning and at dusk.

That was all fine. Sam liked to know what he was getting into, especially when his brother dragged him out hunting in the middle of freaking December in freaking Michigan.

_Dean_ liked to go in half-cocked and learn from experience—what Sam liked to call _the hard way_—but Sam sure didn't.

So, finding out that these damn things can _travel in packs_ was just the start of a very long, very bad day.

…

Sam had been sitting here all night. Like, _all night_. In the cold. Up a tree. With those things—all twelve of them—snapping at the lower branches, daring him to come down so they could rip him to shreds.

"N-no-no-not a ch-chance, you sons of b-bi-bitches," Sam shivered, tucking himself in closer against the largest branch.

Where the hell was Dean in all this?

At least his arm didn't hurt anymore. Maybe it wasn't broken, after all. Awesome.

Come to think of it, his leg and side didn't hurt, either, and that was where he'd definitely been bitten. So that was wrong. Crap. The cold was screwing with him. Admittedly, that probably helped him not to bleed to death, but still. Freezing to death wasn't much harder to do. Sam tried wiggling his fingers and toes. He was pretty sure he didn't feel anything. Crap.

This was all _Dean's_ fault, the stupid jerk. Big time. He was the moron, here, not planning enough ahead of time, wanting to shoot first and ask questions later. Sure, Sammy, we can take care of it, no problem. Clean it up before Dad gets back—hell, before dinner time. Grab your jacket, Sammy. And you'd better put on an extra pair of socks.

Yeah. Those were coming in real handy now. Thanks, Dean.

Sam wasn't even sure where he was right now. Dean had taken the map from him while driving and…maybe it was still in the car somewhere? Sam knew only that they had hiked three miles east from where they had parked, and then he had run downhill, toward the river. They had gotten attacked and Dean managed to be lured away by a stupid decoy dog before the whole pack grinned at Sam, alone in the moonlight. Sam had dropped his rifle after it went empty, with three down and twice that still to contend with. And more continued to join the chase. He must have run another two miles at least—maybe more, it was hard to keep track of distance when you were careening downhill with the jaws of death nipping at you—before he'd fallen off a precipice he'd missed in the dark. He had hurt his arm there, but he had no choice but to keep going unless he wanted to be a chew toy, and might have been stuck running like that forever until his lungs or legs gave out, but managed to hear the river just before he fell into it. Actually, the only bit of luck he had had all night was climbing into the oak tree he was now sitting in.

Then—as now—weaponless, bored, cold, and discovering new injuries as adrenaline wore off and then forgetting about them as cold numbed them away, he waited for Dean.


	2. Temperance

_**A/N: Happy Birthday to ArielButtercup on her actual birthday (though only technically in my time zone…whatever!). I promise our boys will be reunited soon—just needed to see things from the Dean angle! **_

_**Warning: Definitely pissed-off Winchester language warning ahead!**_

_**Disclaimer: Oh, yeah. Obviously don't own **_**Supernatural**_**.**_

…

TEMPERANCE

…

Dean was stupidly pissed. Literally stupid-angry. He knew he was being sloppy. He didn't care.

Sam was missing. What the hell had the kid been thinking, running off like that? He'd told him to stay put. Then Dean heard the shots and came running back, only to discover an empty clearing. No, that wasn't true. Sam's gun was in the snow. Empty.

Shit, and he hadn't given Sam any extra ammo! Damn it!

Dean wanted to kick himself. After he'd beaten the crap out of Sam for running off like that. What the hell had he seen?

Maybe there were _two_ of these things? But that was crazy, Sam said they only hunted by themselves, or pairs during some time of the year that wasn't now. What the hell, then? Had he seen something else? Had he gotten lost?

Had he been taken?

Dean tried to stop the thought before it had fully formed, but it was too late. Taken was bad, and Sam had a more than uncommon habit of disappearing. It could be anything. A witch, a demon, a spirit—hell, a _person_ could have taken him. Sam was just a kid, no matter how much he liked to pretend he was independent and could handle his booze and didn't still need Dean to occasionally remind him to zip up his fly. And Sam was a lot of things, but _dumb_ just wasn't one of them. He wouldn't just run off.

Someone or something had taken him.

Dean's bubbling rage kept him from spotting the tracks for a good half hour—those were definitely Sam's gigantor feet—but by then snow had started falling again.

Dean followed the trail, switching his rage to slow burn so he could concentrate. Sam was running from something. But he saw no other tracks. So ghost, maybe. Or, hell, another one of these freaking Black Dogs. Solitary hunters, my ass.

After a few short minutes, however, the trail was being covered with snow. "No! Shit! You fucking quit it right now!" Dean demanded of the sky, which, of course, replied with even _more_ snow. Dean hated snow. He certainly hated the stuff right now. Shit. This was bad. This was very bad.

How was he going to find Sammy now?

Panic fueled his rage, and Dean picked it up to a jog in the general direction that the tracks had been leading. As he ran, he took careful, measured breaths. _Easy, tiger,_ he told himself. He wasn't going to find Sam if he was pissed off and seeing red. He'd easily miss Sam if he was hiding or hurt in the snow. He had to get a hold of himself. For that matter, he had to keep an eye on where he was going. It wouldn't do either of the any good if he found Sam but couldn't find his way back to the car.

The Impala. _That_ was an idea. It'd sure be nice to have the car here. For once in his life, Dean wished he had his Dad's truck at his disposal rather than somewhere in Illinois working another case. Dad. Should he call him? Dean drew out his phone in consideration. No signal. Okay, solves that problem.

No, Dean was on his own. No Impala, no Dad. Just him and the damn snow and however many Black Dogs were around and whatever had taken Sam.

_He was going to kill them all. _

But first, he had to find Sam.


	3. Hope

_**A/N: Meant to be posting every day…whups! Things happened, including Christmas (hope everyone had a wonderful one!), but here I am, back again! And here are our boys. Time for a reunion, don't you think?**_

…

HOPE

…

Sam was really freaking cold. The growing dawn didn't serve to warn him, although the Black Dogs seemed not to like it and slunk away into the deeper shadows or disappeared entirely. Sam often associated the dawn with hope, and admittedly he _was_ better off now with the dogs gone…

But Dean wasn't here.

But he would be. He just _would_.

Sam was shivering violently, but maybe he could manage to climb down now. He shifted himself slightly, not entirely surprised that he got more pain than motion from the attempt. Nope. Nah-uh. Not even moving. Just waiting here until Dean comes.

Too cold.

Hurts.

Dean.

_Wow, okay, snap out of it, Winchester,_ Sam told himself somewhere in the back of his mind where he was still an adult and could do adult things like use his brain. But that part was shrinking more and more until he found himself surviving less on his own will power to stay awake, keep breathing, and not fall out of this damn tree, and more on the infantile hope that Dean would be here soon and take care of everything.

…

He just _had_ to find Sam. He just _would_.

But the further and further Dean trekked—downhill—the more he dreaded the return trip to the car. At least six miles, as the crow flies, in the snow, uphill, and counting. Ha, he was starting to sound like Dad, or Uncle Bobby. Uphill in the snow—both ways, with no shoes, wasn't that it?

Just his luck.

Six miles in the snow was going to suck as it was: dragging a cold, hungry, whining Sam along was going to be—

Blood. On that tree. A smeared handprint of blood.

Dean felt his heart leap for joy, but it landed somewhere in his throat. He tried to remind himself that it could be anything—an animal's blood, another person, hell, a Black Dog, maybe, just not Sam's blood, not Sam's blood—but Dean knew better. He had a more-than-sneaking-suspicion that there was only one explanation for this. And this meant at the same time something very good and something very bad. Good: this was a trail to Sam. Bad: this was a bloody trail to Sam—Sam was bleeding—Sam was _hurt_.

Dean felt his blood run cold. Colder, anyway. _Shit_. This was bad.

Dean started calling again, startling at the rush of biting cold air that entered his lungs. "Sam! Sammy! _Sam!_"

Dean was approaching the edge of the river which signaled the bottom of the hill. He realized, suddenly, that he had walked all night, that the sun was cresting behind him, and it was only due to this additional light that he had managed to see the blood at all. But now there was no more blood to be found anywhere, but that was to be expected with how hard the snow had been falling. Time to make a decision: left or right. Sam wasn't stupid enough to try and ford the freezing river in these nut-numbing temperatures, so there were only two choices. Dean tried to assess on his approach whether one side sloped up or down, assuming Sam would keep following the path of least resistance, but mainly he shouted.

"Sammy! Dammit, Sam, you hear me, you answer me!"

Because getting angry kept him from getting scared.

Or, you know, crying. He seriously didn't need that right now.

Now Dean stopped at the edge of the roaring river. He looked left, which sloped slightly down. He looked right: slightly up and somewhat nearer to where the car was parked. The river looked like a fast one, but it was lazy now and choked with ice. A few trees grew here on the bank, tall, gaunt, naked things. Dean looked left again, and then right. There was only one other direction Sam could have gone.

For the hell of it, Dean looked up.

…

Sam heard a voice on the freezing wind. Great. Now he was hearing things. Was that a stage of hypothermia? Hallucinations?

No, but it sure was a stage of infection, and those Black Dog bites carried who-knows-what kind of bacterial crap in them. He was feeling warmer, though, and that was nice. Or maybe he just _felt_ warmer, and was in the don't-fall-asleep-stage. Whatever. It didn't matter. At least he wasn't in so much freaking pain anymore.

Now the voice was angry, and Sam desperately strove to make his brain tell him why he cared. It was just a hallucination—why was it making him feel guilty, as if he'd done something wrong—and why did he care so much about what some stupid hallucination thought or felt?

Then the world was shaking, tilting, rough, and he let go of whatever he was holding onto and felt himself begin to slide.

_No, no, no, no, whoa, whoa, wait! Wait. Sammy! _

With a _thunk!_ he did not expect or care to experience, Sam, or more precisely his head, came to rest on a convenient branch that slowed his decent towards the ground. Of course! Because he was in a tree!

_Shit. Sammy. Sam! _The world began rattling again. Maybe the Black Dogs were climbing the tree now? Sam couldn't care less. He was pretty sure by the sound and feel of things that he was in major trouble. Something about the voice told him so.

_Samuel Moron Winchester, you open your friggen eyes this friggen second! _

Yup. Trouble.

Something was touching him now, manipulating him, and he was very uncomfortable. He opened his eyes to tell whatever it was to buzz off.

Sam peered. Blinked. Squinted.

"D-dd-d-d-deann-nn-n?"

"Wow, Sam, welcome back." Sam couldn't decide whether the voice was tender or condescending. But then, that was most of the time with Dean. He tried moving, but his limbs wouldn't obey, and he frowned deeply.

"Sam, stop looking at me like I grew fairy wings."

"Wh-where-re-re're you?"

"Me? Where am I?"

Sam's frown deepened further, and he shook his head. "Mufasa."

"_What_? What the fuck, Sam, don't tell me you have a concussion to go along with all this blood?"

"Me. C-c-c-car."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm working on it. Can you move at all?"

"P-pa-pack-ck."

"Okay, sure, Sammy, let's go."

Sam was pretty sure he had something important to tell Dean, but all that melted away as Dean began shifting him into his arms. Sam never would have admitted it, but right now it felt so good being bundled into Dean's possession, like a large, way-too-tall baby. Somehow, Dean always managed to make it work if he had to—to carry him if he was hurt or scared—though less of that these days—even though Sam was taller than him now and had been for almost a year. He'd probably never match Dean in bulk, though, which was good: then Dean couldn't carry him like he was doing now. This was good. There wasn't so much pain as there was a sense of security, of being lost and being found, of having one's hopes absolutely fulfilled.

"Sam, stop frowning like that," Dean scolded, shaking him a bit roughly. "What's wrong?"

"Something."

…

_**TBC…of course they still have the pack of Black Dogs to contend with! Stay tuned! **_


	4. Justice

JUSTICE

…

What had Dean done to deserve this?

—Okay, okay, _besides_ Susie Wilson on the hood of her dad's T-bird. Not that he was even remotely sorry for that, though it turned out her dad was.

Seriously, here he was with a delirious and injured Sam who was so stoned and hypothermic he couldn't even tell him what hurt, much less help him out in the using-his-legs department. Now he had to lug him six miles through the snow to the car, patch him up, drive him thirty miles back to the hotel, and _then_, as a reward, get to explain to an irate John Winchester why they were late and how he screwed up enough to let Sammy get hurt.

So unfair.

Which of course masked the real fear—the actual genuine heart-exploding terror that Sam was really hurt. It all looked superficial, and hadn't bled a lot thanks to the cold. He was still shivering, so that was a good sign. He was cradling his left arm, which would need some looking into but wasn't immediately life-threatening. In fact, the worst fear was that the Black Dog bites had gotten infected. They weren't poisonous, Dad had always told him, but they fed mainly on rotten meat and souls, and anything that did that wasn't likely to have a clean mouth. So infection was highly likely—make that _very_ likely, the way Sam was talking.

"Okay, buddy, you're okay, help me out, here," Dean said to the bundle in his arms as he began to wonder how he would get them down the tree. "You're not really gonna make me throw you out of this tree, are you?"

Sam jerked awake, eyes snapping open in alarm, clumsy fingers trying to grip onto the leather of his jacket. "Dd-d-d-don't," he pleaded, sounding ten years younger and shivering pathetically just to drive home how much of a bastard he was being.

"Okay, dude, chill. News flash: I was kidding. Let's go now, move out. We're both gonna fall if you don't hang with me. Okay?" he jostled his little brother a bit more roughly than was necessary to get his attention: "You with me?"

"P-p-ppack."

"I don't have a backpack, Sam, we didn't bring anything else. It's just you and me and six miles of snow, so let's get a move on, and I mean pronto."

Dean began his decent, whether Sam was ready or not. It was more controlled falling rather than any kind of graceful climbing down, as Dean managed three points of contact on the tree at all times, but always his left arm wrapped around Sam's shivering form, as they plopped downwards from branch to branch. His back and tailbone were taking most of the abuse, and cussed at him from time to time, but slowly they began to make it towards a manageable distance from the ground, and, from there, the crunch of snow under boots and the exhilaration of being on solid ground.

Dean didn't let Sam sink to the snow, but immediately grabbed what he hoped was the uninjured arm and hauled it over his shoulder as far as he could, pressing a hand against Sam's bloodied side. Sam groaned and flinched, but was still out of it.

"Okay, Sammy. One foot in front of the other, man. That snow ain't going away, so we just gotta get through it. You with me?" Dean felt like he was talking more for his own benefit than for Sam's, as he received no reply, but that Sam relaxed into him and was appearing to make an effort to stand said otherwise. Dean smiled, huffed out a foggy breath of cold air. "Okay. Let's move out." Then Dean looked up.

_Oh. So that was what Sam meant about "pack." _

There were at least ten of them at first count—Black Dogs, surrounding the two hunters with bared teeth and glowing green eyes—maybe they had been there all along, just waiting for their prey to come down from that tree.

"Aww, shit," Dean said.

Dean's immediate concern shifted very quickly from _Sam_ to _gun_. He threw Sam behind him, hoping the kid would manage to steady himself against the tree or, at worst, fall to the soft-ish snow, and in the same movement retrieved the rifle which had been slung across his back. It was up quick enough to get one shot off, but of course two Dogs were leaping at him, so Dean dodged the pounce enough to draw his hip Bowie and dispatch the second attacker. He took a half-step back to be nearer to Sam, who was leaning heavily against the tree but still standing.

"So Black Dogs travel in packs now?" Dean called over his shoulder. Keeping Sam conscious was as much a priority as keeping him alive.

Sam shrugged deliriously. "G-g-guess so."

"You _guess_ so? What, you losing your touch or something, giving me bad intel?" Dean interrupted himself with the report of the rifle, taking down another of the Dogs. "Look at these guys, they're not even black."

Sam chuckled a little at that. "Yeah. M-more of a dark p-p-puke-green."

Then a Dog's teeth found purchase on Dean's jacket, wrenching him down. And another jumped on him, and pretty soon he was down in the snow, forced to punch and kick and stab, and use the rifle as a club instead of a firearm.

"Dean!" Dean heard Sam shout, but then he heard Sam's own cry.

"Sam!" he shouted, struggling to the surface of the aptly-named but absolutely no fun at all dog-pile. "_Sam!_"

"Dean! De—"

There was only one sound worse than hearing Sam cry out his brother's name in fear, pain, or alarm: hearing that cry cut off.

…

Sam had hoped that Dean being there would make everything all right. He was safe, and everything would be better. Dean would take care of him, keep him warm, tend his wounds, and handle what was sure to be a very pissed-off Dad when they ever made it back.

Now it was looking like they might never get back.

Dean was awesome, and Sam would never lose faith in him, but he wasn't able to handle eleven ferocious Black Dogs at close quarters. It just wasn't fair.

Sam cried out as five of the Dogs enveloped Dean. He had to help—he had to do something! But standing without the aid of the tree just wasn't happening any time soon. And five fighting Dean still left four to him.

Crap.

Before Sam could even react, the Dogs had latched onto him. But instead of ripping him to shreds, they were dragging him through the snow. Before he could wonder where they were taking him, cold deeper than any cold he knew bit into him and crashed over him, and he couldn't breathe or hear or see.

He was in the river.

…

It was not a question of whether or not Dean would be able to get these Dogs off of him and get to Sam.

It was only a question of how many pieces he would tear their carcasses into with his bare hands on the way there.

These sons of bitches—literally—hur hur hur—had already given him and his brother enough trouble. They had screwed with the Winchesters, and that was the number one way to get dead in this life. At the top of that list was hurting Sammy while Dean had a pulse.

It had to have been one of those freak adrenaline things, though, because, seriously he'd never broken anything's neck before: Dean was strong, but he wasn't _that_ strong. Also, he still had the knife, he still had the rifle which had a dual-function as a club, and he was still pissed as all hell—and _that_ was his greatest weapon.

You mess with Sam on Dean's watch, you pay. Simple. Fair. Guaranteed.

It kind of came as a shock for all of two milliseconds when there were suddenly no more Black Dogs to be dealt with. Dean lost no time in scrambling to the water's edge, where he just saw a churning, struggling hand disappear beneath the surface, as the current carried Sam downstream. Next to him, a snarling, writhing Dog was holding him under the surface. A burst of red had Dean screaming and cursing at the sky as he ran along beside the sluggish water. Sam fought his way to the top, shouting his brother's name, before the damn Dog dragged him down again.

There, up ahead, a log lay conveniently across the water, just a foot above the ice-choked surface. Dean put his head down and _sprinted_ to that log and threw himself down flat on top of it, fumbling to line up the rifle in time. He had _one_ shot at this, like Jaws was coming at him with the tank of oxygen in his mouth. And it was hard to tell in the dim morning light what part of the dark shape was Black Dog, and what was Sammy.

Dean squeezed the trigger.

Holding his breath wasn't necessary, however, because the flash of exploding liquid in the water wasn't red. It was black. _Maybe that's why they call them Black Dogs,_ Dean thought distantly as Sam bobbed to the surface.

"Sam! Sam!" Dean shouted at the still form floating towards him. He reached down and snagged a fistful of Sam's jacket out of the freezing water, using all his strength to haul the soaking wet 6'3" beanpole out of the river.

Sam's body was limp as Dean continued to shout. "Dammit, Sam, you wake up and help me out, here, I swear to God! Quit screwing around, Sam! Sammy!" This last was a plea as Dean felt his voice break, along with, probably, part of his heart.

Dean flipped his little brother over onto his back. It had to hurt, his spine bent around the log like that, but Sam didn't so much as twitch. Unconscious? Dean tore open Sam's jacket and shirt, trying to feel for a pulse through his fingers which were themselves practically numb. He didn't feel anything, but that was probably more due to the fact that Dean noticed something else very wrong about this picture. Sam was absolutely still.

Sam wasn't breathing.


	5. Fortitude

_**A/N: Yeah, okay, okay, sorry. I know, it was evil to leave the last chapter like I did! And was gonna get this up quicker, but then it went and got long! It's a six-mile hike, after all!**_

_**Disclaimer: Whups, forgot to do this earlier. Don't profess to own, please don't attempt to sue. Supernatural was crafted by the gods, granted to the blessed Kripke & co., and encroached upon by shameless blasphemers like me! (Okay, kidding about that last part.)**_

…

FORTITUDE

…

_Sam wasn't breathing…_

"Shit! Sammy! Sam!" Dean shouted, for a moment too shocked to remember the basics of CPR. "Sam, don't do this to me! Don't you fucking _dare_ leave me, Sam! _Sam_!"

Dean struck Sam in the chest—too gently, afraid to hurt him—and then again, harder, trying to get his body to breathe.

"I am _so_ not kissing you, dude, this isn't funny! Breathe!"

Dean didn't even notice the growing patch of crimson on Sam's shoulder, where the last Black Dog had done its final bit of damage. He ran the heel of his palm roughly up and down Sam's sternum, pushing hard down on his diaphragm in an attempt to force any blocking water out.

"Sam! While we're young, Sammy, _breathe_, dammit!"

Dean also didn't notice that Sam's arm lay at an awkward angle, more awkward than unconsciousness alone explained. Sam's lips were bluing—and not from the cold—and this was all Dean saw, panic giving him tunnel vision.

In a last-ditch effort before initiating the kiss of life, Dean grasped Sam by the lapels and slammed him back down on the log, causing the entire thing to jump as if the area had been hit by an earthquake. It was hard enough that, had Sam been conscious—or, you know, breathing—he would probably have started crying and gotten him in trouble. What in fact happened was that Sam _did_ start crying, but he also choked and started coughing up water, and gasping for air, and that was the important thing.

"Hey, hey!" Dean shouted, triumphant. He couldn't roll Sam onto his side without shoving him into the river again, so instead he straddled the log and pulled Sam upright, clutching him tightly and laugh-crying with relief. "That's right, Sammy, get it all out. I gotcha, I gotcha, you're okay."

Sam's fingers twitched, closing around Dean's jacket as the rest of his body convulsed. Short gasps of trying to get air in punctuated the steady rush of water trying to get out. Dean held his not-so-little brother against his chest, heedless of the freezing water pouring down his shoulder, and continued thumping his back to force more water out.

"Sammy? Sammy!" Dean warned as Sam began to go still, his coughing becoming less and his head falling against Dean's shoulder. The idea of Sam going still again, not moving, was terrifying at the moment, if irrational, but the pragmatic triage corner of Dean's brain also didn't want Sam falling asleep on him. "Stay with me, Sam, come on," he said, guiding Sam's face up to meet his gaze. "Sammy, open your eyes, come on, man, say something."

"Ow," he moaned, rather pathetically. That pretty much summed it up, though. "My…hurts…" Sam gasped, coughed. He didn't open his eyes.

"Easy, Sammy, I know, man, I know, just stay with me. I got you, gonna get you out of here. Stay strong for me, bud," Dean encouraged, just now beginning to notice the plethora of other problems which faced them:

Sam was breathing, now, but he wasn't shivering. Bad sign number one. His left shoulder was bleeding, and two other wounds became apparent at his right hip and thigh. His left arm, in fact, hung useless at his side.

Oh, yeah. And the six-mile hike back to the car. Uphill. The forty extra yards they had gone downstream, though very little in the scheme of things, added to the hopelessness of it all.

Meanwhile Sam could freeze to death, or bleed out for that matter. Dean paused in debate for a moment. Did he dare try to patch Sam up here? Or should he just get him to the car first? Should he find somewhere to camp out and see what he was dealing with first? Well, yeah, duh, that would be the best plan: bed down, stay warm, wait for help. The problem was: _what help?_ Waiting for Dad to miraculously come to the rescue was like waiting for Dad to be home when he said he would be.

No. Car. Now.

"Sam, you think you can walk for me?" Dean asked, not expecting an answer, but keeping up a steady stream of conversation to keep Sam at least semi-alert as they did an awkward scoot-slide along the log to the bank of the river. "Sammy? Come on, bro, let's go. Hot, warm car just waiting for us, and our crappy motel just beyond that. I'll make you soup and we can watch whatever's on TV that you want to watch. Sound like a deal? Come on, Sam, all I'm asking is you stay with me here. Sam? _Sam_!"

…

"_Sam."_

So Dean was mad at him. Or something else was wrong, and it was probably his fault. He only got called "Sam" when he was in trouble, or there was no time for the pleasantries of an extra syllable. So this was bad. Very bad.

_You're damn right, it's bad!_ Some part of him screamed. He had been attacked, bitten, broken, frozen, drowned, revived, oh, and frozen.

The only awesome thing was that it didn't really hurt anymore.

Which should be fine, right? Apparently, not if you're Dean Winchester. Apparently, if you're Dean Winchester, you're a sick freak and you need pain to feel alive, pain was your friend. Which was stupid, because the stage of numbness Sam had arrived at was actually quite nice. The only thing that kept Sam from drifting off was the niggling in the back of his mind that told him that Dean was worried, and that meant something was bad, and he should try to stay focused.

"Sam. Sam? _Walking_. You. Me. We're walking, man, come on. I'll help you, but we gotta get going."

"Stupid."

"What?"

"Stupid. Wanna sleep."

"_No_, Sam. Sammy, you hear me, this is _not_ dumb! This is staying alive, okay? You with me? You like staying alive?"

"I thought you hated disco."

There was a long pause, long enough that Sam wondered if Dean had left him, and he opened his eyes.

"Oh. There," he said.

"You know, I almost prefer you not talking. 'Cause then you're not saying weird shit."

"Fine by me," Sam murmured and closed his eyes.

…

"No! Shit! Sam! That's not what I—" Dean cursed as Sam folded into his arms, having gone from newborn-kitten-limp to noodle-limp in less than two seconds. "Screw it," Dean sighed, took a deep breath, and laid Sam across his shoulders. They had abandoned most of Sam's sopping wet clothes on the riverbank, so he was a manageable weight when carried fireman-style.

But he still wasn't _light_.

Dean had no other choice. He put his head down and began soldiering through a steady jog up the hill, back to the car. It probably wasn't comfortable for Sam, but he could honestly care less at this point. If Sam woke up just to bitch at him it would be a fair sight better than things were right now.

Between the snow, the cold, the hill, and that he was carrying an extra 140 pounds of beanpole muscle on his back, Dean didn't expect to reach the Impala as quickly as he did. Maybe he'd gotten his distances wrong, or directions? Or maybe he was just that terrified that Sam wouldn't make it that he ran way faster than he would otherwise have had the strength to run. Like one of those freak adrenaline things.

Either way, they were at the car. A quick check revealed Sam was still way out of it, but he was breathing: alive. And that was a hell of an accomplishment on a day like today.

"All right, Sammy," Dean said, managing to manipulate the keys out of his pocket and into the door only dropping them twice, before depositing Sam in the front passenger seat. "You with me, Sammy? Gonna wake up sometime soon? Look," he added, reaching across Sam's limp form to turn the keys in the ignition to get her warmed up: baby turned over and started purring immediately, as if sensing his need, "getting the car warmed up for ya. How does that sound? Sam?" Now Dean got a little rough, slapping Sam in the cheek. His brother wasn't shivering anymore, and sleeping and not-shivering were a bad combo right now.

Sam groaned and pouted, but his eyes stayed shut.

Dean poked his brother's temple. "Sam. Eyes. Open. _Now_."

It looked like an extreme effort, but Sam pulled his eyes open.

"Atta boy," Dean grinned.

"Shut the door, 'scold," Sam slurred.

"Um. Wow. Okay, good, at least your brain's still attached to your body. Now let's work on the other ninety-nine problems we got on our trash can lid right now." Dean crawled into the car over Sam and pulled the door shut behind him. Reaching beneath the seat he slammed the bench seat all the way back, like Sam did when he was driving (though probably more just to piss him off than anything), so that he would have enough room to work. Before the car even began to warm up, Dean started stripping Sam of his still-wet, still-freezing clothes, tossing them in a heap in the back seat. They weren't helping, and had been on him for far too long already.

"Bleeding," Sam said sadly.

"Not too bad, though, you're all right," Dean encouraged. "Still too frozen to be bleeding much. I got it under control, man."

Sam hissed as Dean guided his arms out of his sleeves. "Arm hurts," he said.

Dean had seen him cradling the left arm from before, so he was prepared for this. "Roger that, Sammy. I'll just wrap it for now and maybe we'll get you to a clinic when dad gets home, huh?" Dean didn't add _with the insurance cards_ because it was simply better to let Sam think it wasn't bad enough for the hospital when it probably was and they just didn't have the money for it.

Sam frowned and looked around him, as if suddenly startled. This kick-started something in him, because he began shivering again. Dean silently thanked whoever was listening for that.

"Pack," he said earnestly. "You get 'em all?"

"Yeah, Sammy." Dean tousled Sam's hair and grinned, holding his hand resting on Sam's head until his eyes focused. "Good soldier. I got it from here, okay?"

Sam blinked, and nodded slowly. "Kay," he said, and closed his eyes.

In the moment of silence following, Dean realized he was shaking, and it _wasn't_ from the cold. He ran his arm across his eyes to collect himself. Dean hated that after-adrenaline-low, when the initial terror and pain had passed and you realized what a lucky fuck you were to have gotten out of this alive. It made him feel weak and giddy and weird, like he was going to cry or something.

But it wasn't over yet. The car was warm, but Sam was still cold and shivering. A few sloppy patch jobs on the open wounds were all that could be done with the first aid kit in the glove compartment. He dove into the back seat, returning with a blanket, which he cocooned Sam in as gently as he could.

"All right, Sammy," Dean said as he buckled Sam into the seat. "Just hang in there for me. Time to roll out."

…

_**To Be Continued! I have two more chapters in mind…because what would the Seven Winchester Virtues be without Faith and Love? *g* To that end, I would love any wonderful hurt-y/comfort-y ideas you people have to fill them with! Black Dog bites are poisonous? Sammy gets an infection? The Impala gets stuck in snow? They don't have Sam's favorite flavor of cough medicine at the store? Would love to hear ideas! And thanks again for your patience! 3**_


	6. Faith

_**A/N: Okay, big time apologies for not finishing this puppy sooner. One more chapter to go, and still taking requests for whatever. This is finishing up as a *very* late birthday present for ArielButtercup, who compelled me to finish the darn thing, you know, sometime before her next birthday... **_

_**Got enough requests for a hospital scene, but after humming and hawing and struggling with it, I decided, screw it, who likes hospitals, and who wants doctors and nurses trying to horn in on the brotherly love? **_

_**Dean agreed. So here we are.**_

…

FAITH

…

Sam hurt.

Like, all over. Seriously. He knit his brow together, but didn't open his eyes.

He didn't move. He wasn't even sure he could, and he certainly didn't want to. Dean wanted him to walk somewhere. But why? They were in the car now, right? Safe. Warm. Dean would look after him.

Funny how it really didn't hurt anymore.

And it was hot.

…

Of course, 6 miles back to the car wasn't half the problem, because it was still 40 miles back to town, on icy, winding mountain roads.

The car had warmed up enough that Dean had begun trying to undress and redress himself, pile dry clothes on his brother, make sure Sammy was still alive and wasn't bleeding out, all while trying to stay on the road. At the best of times Dean wasn't much of a multitasker, but when all he wanted to do was keep reaching over to check if Sammy was still with him, the drive was slow going for all the near-misses and driving half on the shoulder or in the oncoming lane. The good news, those times he swerved across both the lanes of the highway, was that no one was there.

The bad news was, no one was there.

No one else was retarded enough to be driving in this.

It quickly became apparent that Sam wasn't just going to sleep this one off. If it had been any _one_ problem, either the broken arm or the bite wounds or the hypothermia or poison, he would have been fine, would have been fussing at Dean for fussing with him, but as he was now he just lay there. He tossed and turned occasionally, pulling the blankets off like a moron, ever weakening, even over the course of the drive, and he didn't really regain consciousness, not even to mumble delirious nonsense or tell Dean to turn down the Metallica that right now just _wasn't_ helping him calm down.

This was a hospital job.

Dean let that sink in for a minute. _This was hospital-caliber_. Sammy had gotten hospital-hurt on a hunt with him. Dean was going to be lucky if Dad ever let them go on a hunt on their own ever again. Dean was going to be lucky if he still had the correct number of orifices when Dad got through with him.

Dean pulled out his phone. At least he had service now. He dropped the phone between his legs as he flicked mentally through the numbers he could call.

Dad. Yeah, no thanks, not right now. We'll take that bull by the horns when we have to, and not a moment sooner…

911. By all rights he _should_. He owed it to Sammy to admit defeat, admit he screwed up and let him get hurt, and call in the professionals to clean it up, damn his pride. On the other hand, Sam hated hospitals as much as he did, as much as they all did, and with Dad out of town with the insurance cards…

Uncle Bobby would come in a heartbeat. Well, okay, he'd _leave_ in a heartbeat, but it would take him, like, twelve hours to get anywhere remotely near them, according to the worryingly accurate continental U.S. roadmap inside Dean's head. And they asked so much of him all the time anyway…

Sam keened next to him, letting out such a pained, pitiful, heart-wrenching sound, Dean's heart and guts dropped down to his bowels, and he risked a panicked glance to his left.

"Hey, Sammy," he soothed, his mouth going dry. He touched Sam's forehead, which was too warm, and glistening with sweat. "Sammy, you with me, bro?"

He didn't expect an answer, so Sam speaking surprised him. "Don't feel good, Dee'." The fact that Sam didn't open his eyes and was frowning deeply confirmed this.

Dean turned off the radio. "What kind, bro, talk to me. You gonna puke, you got a headache, you need some painkillers?"

"Not gonna—wanna sleep."

Dean snaked his hand under the blankets and felt Sam's hands, which were warming up. "It's okay, Sammy, you can sleep."

"Can't. 'S'not…comfor'ble. Wanna…bed."

"You got it, Sammy-oh, just a few more minutes and we'll be—"

Sam sat up, suddenly, eyes wide, face scrunching in pain at the movement: "No hospitals," he said, to the world at large, and then, he managed to focus his eyes on Dean. "No hospitals."

Dean's heart twisted. "You know the rules, Sammy…but," he added, "I don't think we're in the market for a hospital, yet, okay?" he lied, "So long as you chill out and don't hurt yourself any more, got it? Just lay back, here, I got a—shit, road!—here—" he said as he stuffed a sweater behind Sam's head as a makeshift pillow.

"Hot," Sam complained, and, "don't feel good," he reiterated, but after shifting himself slightly, Sam settled back, patient, trusting, and closed his eyes.

It was Dean's turn to frown.

It was a hell of a call. He touched Sam's forehead again, didn't like the diagnosis, which was that Sam's temp was _way_ too high, he didn't need a thermometer to tell him that, and he needed a hospital. On the other hand, it was just as likely that it was a kind of Black Dog poison unknown until now, and something that the hospital couldn't help with.

They needed to go to ground. They needed another hunter. Someone who would understand at least that this wasn't a wolf attack and a bad fall or whatever lie would suffice, maybe someone who had even treated a Black Dog bite before and knew an antidote or remedy. Why there weren't more hunter-doctors in this world was beyond Dean's comprehension of how the world worked and sucked in ever new and interesting ways.

Okay, Bobby's it was. Dean picked up the phone and flicked down to Singer. But on the way down the alphabet, another name caught his eye:

_Murphy, Jim_.

Pastor Jim! _Duh_, Winchester. Pastor Jim was at least three hours closer than Bobby was, and, so long as today wasn't Sunday—hell, even if it _was_—Jim could, and _would_, hit the road at any time for them. It bugged Dean to ask either of these men for help, but when Sam's life was on the line, Dean was willing to do a lot of things that bugged him under normal circumstances. It also bugged him that he knew they would come running, eager to help at the first sign of trouble, usually before he could even stammer out a request. They'd done it before, enough times to make it embarrassing, ever since Dean was old enough to realize that these men didn't actually owe him or his dad anything, but, for some inexplicable reason, _cared_. It made Dean feel self-conscious and awkward, like he did when he was leading some girl on and didn't know how he was doing it.

It bugged him that he'd had more of a father from Bobby and Jim in the few years he'd known them than from Dad his whole life.

"Hello, this is Jim."

"Pastor Jim? It's Dean."

Before he had gotten the words out of his mouth, Jim knew who he was speaking to: "Dean, it's wonderful to hear from you," in that patient, kind, you-can-tell-me-anything voice that was as soothing to Dean as much as it put him on guard. Dean took a deep breath to begin, but, "Is something the matter?" Pastor Jim asked.

Dean released the breath in a dry laugh, admonishing himself: "Ah, yeah. Sorry. I guess I _do_ only call when I need something, huh?"

Jim replied with a soft laugh. "Dean, if I gave a damn about telephone etiquette, I wouldn't exactly be friends with your father now, would I?"

Dean was instantly at ease, grinning ear to ear even as he white-knuckled the steering wheel and eased the Impala to 70. "Pastor Jim, did you just say what I think you just said?

"I think, Dean Winchester, if you read your Bible more often, you'd find quite a few words you shouldn't be afraid to include in your vocabulary," he replied playfully. "You might do well to look up _salvation_, or even _help_, as the prophet Isaiah recorded when—"

"Okay, okay," Dean surrendered, and cut to the chase, "Sammy's in trouble, Jim. Dad's on another hunt, and we're in Michigan."

"What happened?"

"Sam's here, but he—" Dean lowered his voice, less so Sam couldn't hear and more because if he said it out loud he admitted it was true: "he's hurt pretty bad, Jim. Probably needs a hospital, but I think he might be poisoned or something."

"What were you hunting?"

"Black Dog."

Dean could feel Pastor Jim wincing. On the one hand, this was good: it meant he was familiar with this problem. On the other hand…

"Ah, yes. I think I can track down—do you have any bdellium or calamus?"

"Uh…what?"

"Never mind, do you have any anise? Even licorice candy will do."

"Uh. I guess we could get some."

"Good. See if you can get him to eat some of that, it will help delay the poison."

"So Black Dog bites _are_ poisonous? What the hell, that's not what Dad said!"

"Dean, I'm sure your father was giving you the best intelligence he had at the time—"

"Yeah, well, a fat lot of good that did for Sam—" Dean regretted his outburst as Sam, on cue, snorted awake.

"Dee'?"

"Sorry, Sammy, go back to sleep."

"Who ya talking to?"

"Pastor Jim."

"Oh. Good." Sam closed his eyes.

There was silence for a long time, Dean's only company the squeaking windshield wiper.

"Are you done?" Pastor Jim asked, not quite accusingly, but not quite patiently, either. "I understand your distress, Dean, so let me help you. Now, I know a priest at St. Ambrose Church in Chicago. He is…sensitive to this type of situation, and he'll be able to help. Can you get there?"

"Uh. Yeah. Take us…" Dean consulted the map in his head. "Three hours?"

"Good. Now drive safely, Dean, and look after your brother. If you need to stop, stop, and I will come get you. The church is on East 47th Street, and the priest's name is Hank Madison. I'll call and let him know you're coming. St. Ambrose. You remember, he wrote that holy water blessing I taught you and Sam when you were younger."

Dean laughed. "How could I forget? St. Ambrose, 47th Street, Madison. Got it."

God, he loved that man. No 'Did you call your father?' No 'What did you screw up?' He didn't even ask for the full after-action-report. Dean had just said "help" and he was there. It was a relief. It was _insane_.

It was awesome. Dean would never admit it but—okay, he'd totally admit it—just maybe not out loud—they were lucky to know people other than their father who gave a shit.

…

Sam felt sick.

He was disoriented—which pissed him off all the more—to the point where he couldn't even tell exactly how sick he felt, or in what way, or how much. Was he going to puke right this second, or maybe in a few minutes, or at all? Was he cold, or hot? Did his entire body hurt, or was it just isolated points that hurt more than the general ache? Was he getting a cold? Did his toes hurt, or could he even feel them?

Where was Dean?

"Easy, there, Sammy," he heard, and felt a large hand on his chest, "I'm right here, take it easy. Chicago's only a few hours away. Here, Sammy, can you nibble on this for me?"

Something slimy was at his mouth. "Gross."

"Come on, you like licorice."

Sam swallowed thickly. "Not today."

"Okay, um. Okay. If you need to hurl let me know, but try and get some of that down if you can."

Dean set the bag down next to him. The smell was strong. Soothing, actually. Want.

Arm didn't work. Tried to reach with the other one. Must have looked like an idiot, because,

"Whoa, here, buddy, let me help you. You want some? How about some water? You're getting pretty hot there, bro, I better watch out or you'll be stealing the chicks right out from under me."

Sam chuckled, less because it was funny and more because he wanted Dean to see him smile.

One bite of licorice was all Sam's stomach and pride could take, as he turned his head away from Dean trying to feed him a second bite.

"What's wrong, Sammy, you want me to do the airplane?" Dean teased, but put the licorice away.

The world was spinning and winding, and Sam knew even on his worst days Dean wasn't this bad of a driver. "Eyes on the road, Dean," Sam grumbled anyway.

"Come on, bro, have a little faith!"

…

"Father…Madison?" Dean addressed the man who appeared to be waiting for him, a large overcoat pulled over clerical robes, a shock of red hair a stark contrast to his otherwise drab ensemble.

"Dean Winchester. Pastor Jim called." He looked behind Dean to the Impala. "Do you need help getting him inside?"

Dean bit his lip. He was bone-weary, but, "No, I got him," he insisted. Like all men of the cloth, the man assumed (correctly) that Dean was lying, but (wisely) let it slide.

"I'll get the doors."

Sam was out cold, too weak even to shiver or shift as sweat poured off him in disgusting buckets. Who knew such a skinny kid could sweat so much? Dean wrapped the blankets and makeshift blankets tightly around his brother and hefted the giant Sam-burrito into his arms. The Father was there to shut and lock the Impala door, and led him around the back of the church to what looked like a greenhouse or tool shed or carriage house. Not that Dean knew what any of those actually looked like.

You didn't notice it unless you knew what to look for, but the occasional protection symbol, hanging medallion, amulet, cat's eye shell, or conveniently placed bag of salt told Dean this guy really did know his stuff. The Father led him through a snow-covered walled garden to the door of the greenhouse. It was warm and moist in here, despite the cold outside. Dean stepped gingerly through, trying to avoid knocking over potted plants and cans of water, to a back room that the cleric unlocked with a key.

This room was dark, but also warm. The father lit a candle—an actual _candle_—and pointed to a cot, freshly made up, in the corner. To Dean, this room looked like something straight out of the middle ages, but it was a hunter's storeroom for sure. A salt line lay across the doorway, which Dean stepped carefully over. A protection symbol was painted over the door. Old books were stacked on a desk by the wall, and shelves housed jars of herbs and various weirdness, unlabeled. There was an honest-to-goodness sword hanging on the wall, and next to it, an old gun, like something you'd say "stand and deliver" with.

Dean lay Sam down on the cot, frowning when the movement elicited no reaction.

"I have fresh clothes here, if you need them," the Father said. "I'll go fetch wood for the fire."

Dean wasted no time in stripping out of his still-damp jeans and sweatshirt into the unfortunately uncool poorhouse clothes provided, but left Sam in his boxers, which were dry now, settling instead for replacing the blankets.

For the first time in two hours, Sam shifted and scrunched his face. "D'n…" he slurred.

"Hey, Sammy, you with me, bro?" Dean asked, touching the side of Sam's head.

Sam replied with a pout.

"Hang in there for me, Sammy," Dean asked, trying not to beg. "Just take it easy, but hang in there for me. We're gonna get you patched up, okay?"

Sam nodded faintly, his face still scrunched in confusion or pain, but in spite of this he relaxed into Dean's ministrations.

…

_Don't drive faster than your guardian angel can fly_, warned a smiling bumper sticker on the minivan Jim Murphy sped past on 47th Street.

He'd made the drive in record time, but still it wasn't soon enough. He had passed on to Father Hank the recipe for the poultice for the bites, but it was hard for even a supernatural herbalist clergyman to get a hold of bdellium, especially at this time of year in this climate.

And a Black Dog bite wasn't something you wanted to leave to chance, especially if the boy was hurt in any other way.

"Father Hank!" Jim shouted, spotting the red-haired man walking briskly across the compound carrying something in his hands. Hank turned, on the defensive, but smiled broadly at him and relaxed his stance as Jim practically fell out of his car and jogged over to him, briefcase in hand.

"Pastor Jim," he said warmly. "Your boys are in the back office."

"How's Sam?"

Father Hank bit his lip. "I'm glad you're here."

"That bad, huh?" Jim ground out as they strode through the garden.

Hank regretted the comment immediately. "No. I didn't mean that. I meant—I'm not exactly sure. Dean wouldn't let me go near him. In all my days I've never seen anyone so intensely protective. You'd think the boy suspected I was a demon."

Jim laughed, in spite of himself. "Actually, that's just the Winchesters. I'm sorry if they caused you any trouble, and thank you, again, from the bottom of my heart."

"Not at all. Here," he added, at the door, handing him the large box. "This might be better received from you. I hope it's still warm, and there's soup for the boy. Let me know if you require anything else. Mass begins in—"

Jim smiled. "I'll take it from here, Hank."

When Jim let himself in, the intrusion must have startled Dean, for the boy wheeled around and assumed a protective stance over his younger brother, and relaxed only slightly when he saw that it was Pastor Jim. He had clearly been at work for some time, judging by his weary gait, and in the middle of changing the dressing on Sam's shoulder, as he hastily threw bandages and blankets over his brother as if these would offer more protection.

"Do you have that…delly-stuff?" Dean asked, instantly down to business, a sign of intense worry more than his usual inexcusable rudeness.

"Well, hello to you, too, Dean Winchester," Pastor Jim replied, setting the food down on the table, his bag on the chair, and taking his coat off to hang on the door.

Dean looked immediately repentant. "I'm sorry, Pastor Jim, but Sammy—Sam's fever is still bad. And he—"

"Okay, Dean, relax," Jim said, moving toward where Dean knelt next to his brother and laying one hand on his shoulder and the other hand on Sam's brow. "Start from the beginning. Not triage, there's no danger now."

Dean took a deep breath. "Okay. I, ah, I think he hurt his arm. It might be broken, I wrapped it." Jim nodded, pulled the blankets down to Sam's waist. Dean flinched at this, but continued. "And he's got a nasty bite in his shoulder, another on his side, one on his leg. So if they're poisonous he's—"

"He'll be all right, Dean, relax. Is this all?"

"He…might have a concussion, although I couldn't really find anything. He was confused when I found him, but that might have been the poison, or the cold—"

"You checked his extremities?"

"_Yes_, Pastor Jim, I'm not a moron," Dean sounded offended. "Nothing was frostbitten, he was just cold. In fact, that's the only thing that hasn't got me worried right now."

"Of course, Dean, I'm sorry. And you? Are you all right?"

"Huh?" Dean looked surprised.

"Are you hurt? Have you kept warm?"

"What? _Yeah_, I'm fine."

"Dean, there's supper on the table," Jim suggested.

"Jim, I'm fine, I can—"

"Dean," the suggestion was an order now. "Trust me to look out for Sam for now. Please."

Dean struggled with that for a moment, narrowed his eyes, but he smelled pizza, and eventually gave in, although he shifted the chair away from the fire to keep an eye on Sam.

...

_**A/N: Also an experiment in writing Pastor Jim for the first time…which, you know, the guy only has one scene in the show, so it's not much to go off of…hope it satisfied! :D**_


	7. Love

_**A/N: Because what would the Winchesters be without love? Not that they'd ever admit it, of course. Love is definitely the touchy-feely-chick-flick stuff Dean claims to hate, but it's there, and he knows it. And likes it.**_

_**This is dedicated to my wonderful Ariel Buttercup on her birthday. I only started this, you know, on her last birthday. :P**_

…

_THE VIRTUES OF BEING A WINCHESTER_

FINAL(LY!) CHAPTER

…

LOVE

…

Sam woke feeling like he had the flu.

He was warm, finally.

Too warm, actually.

He hurt, but not as much as before, and probably not as much as he ought to be in the scheme of things. Which was good.

The room was dark, but not silent. He heard voices. Well, one voice.

Dean.

Ever-present. Steadfast. Abiding.

God, how the hell loopy _was_ he?

Dean was talking to someone. But he couldn't hear the answering voice. Phone? Oh, wait, there was a voice, faintly. It was tinny, _was_ from a phone. Someone yelling very loudly on a phone.

Dad.

_Shit_.

"Daaaad!" Dean was whining. Dean _never_ whined, especially to their father. "Sam is _not_ okay to travel!"

Oh, okay, that made sense. Dean did periodically whine to their father if it was for or about Sam. Technically, Sam mused, he probably _was_ fit for traveling. He'd had worse. Just stuff him in the back seat, sleeping in the car just the same as sleeping in a bed. Which, it wasn't, of course, not since he's hit six foot, but Dad never saw it like that.

Dean did.

"Dad," he heard Dean take in a steadying breath, no longer whining, but stating facts. It was like trying to reason with an enraged grizzly bear. "We're not leaving til Sammy's on his feet again."

Yelling and screaming on the other end. _Damn_, Sam was glad Dad wasn't actually here.

"Yes, sir," Dean said, his voice breaking the tiniest bit. "_Oh_, I understand, sir, absolutely. Yes, sir. Same answer."

More yelling and screaming. True to form, Dean was handling this quite well: the perfect stoic, enough that it made Sam kind of mad. Also true to form, Dad was the complete opposite. God, his head hurt just imagining the shouting and the abuses.

His brother stared down monsters most other people would sooner lose control of their bowels at the sight of. He regularly faced life-threatening dangers, regularly saved people from said dangers, and for thanks more often than not got run out of town for his troubles, left to hustle pool at the next town for enough money to buy them food and buy Sam the occasional schoolbook and keep up with Dad's penchant for whiskey. His brother hunted danger, lived faster than any guardian angel could ever fly, and ate horror for breakfast.

To Sam, Dean never seemed braver than when he was weathering Dad's lectures.

_That_ was why Sam knew in his heart that he couldn't live this life permanently.

"Damn it, Dad, he's sick and hurt, not lazy!" Dean had suddenly lost his cool a little, which surprised Sam and jolted him out of his thoughts. He opened up his eyes: still in the same room, which was dark, and Dean was just outside, the door slightly ajar, so that his shadow flickered on the wall as he paced.

"The hell I _will_ talk back to you, if you're saying that! _You're_ the one who didn't bother mentioning anything about the fucking Black Dog _poison_! If Pastor Jim hadn't—"

The briefest of pauses, as Dean listened to the other line, and, apparently, reached his saturation point.

"Screw you very much, Dad! He may be your son but _he's __**my**__ brother_!"

There was a crash. Dean threw his phone against a wall, again. And kicked over a trash can, by the sound of it. He growled and fumed a bit more, but presently seemed to think better of himself, cussed, and righted the waste bin. Sam heard the sound of Dean collecting whatever had spilled out and throwing it away again. A few deep breaths.

He pushed open the door, murmuring half to himself—

"Sammy, if you love your brother, you'll be healed up by the time Dad gets here."

"You got it, Deano," Sam ground out.

Dean jumped.

"Shit, Sammy, you're _awake_?" Dean flicked a small light on. Sam scrunched his eyes shut and flinched. "I'm sorry, man, I thought—well, not like you could sleep with me and Dad going at it, right? Sorry."

"Dad's gonna tear you a new one, dude."

Dean plopped down into a chair beside him, laughing nervously. "And _how_, man."

"It's not funny, Dean."

"And I ain't laughing."

"And, dude, if we're where I think we are, you were totally cussing up a storm on hallowed ground."

"Cross that one off the to-do list."

There was a heavy pause.

"Thanks, Dean."

Dean rested a hand on Sam's shoulder. "You got it, Sammy." Then the hand moved to the side of his neck, his forehead, "Hey, geez, you're still pretty warm." Dean stood up and stripped one of the blankets off. "Pastor Jim says it'll be kinda just like the flu, unfortunately, but longer, at least until it leaves your system. You're supposed to drink some of this tea to get better quicker…"

"Where is Pastor Jim?"

"It's like two in the morning, Sam. He's sleeping."

"Oh."

"You tired?"

"No. I'll drink the tea." Because while Sam wasn't particularly hungry or thirsty, anything that meant shortening the duration of his current suffering sounded awesome.

"Okay, I'll—_whoa_, dude: _don't_ sit up!" Dean barked. "Let me help you, you moron."

Sam tried not to laugh at his well-meaning but massively overbearing older brother, and decided humoring him was the best option right now. He did feel pretty weak and yucky, and, oh yeah, three broken bones, forgot about those. So Sam sat quietly as Dean boiled water, made the tea, heated some soup for both of them, and sat by to make sure Sam could drink on his own.

"You good for a minute here, Sammy? I'll be right back."

Without really waiting for a reply, Dean practically pranced out of the room out to the hallway—_was that a greenhouse out there?_—and returned almost immediately carrying something large and heavy.

"Oh, geez, Dean, where'd you get a TV?"

"Father Madison said I could borrow it while you're recouping, so long as we put it back when we leave."

"Sweet. Now if only there was anything other than infomercials and _Dallas_ reruns on at this time of night," Sam chuckled, coughing wetly.

"Dude. You saying I don't think of my bro?" With no little triumph, Dean took a plastic bag from where it hung on the back of a chair, and slowly withdrew a rental movie. Sam had to peer hard to see the title, but when he did, he would have jumped for joy if he could, and a wide grin exploded on his face.

"Dean! Oh my God, where the hell did you find _Thundercats_?" Sam wasn't sure, but he might even have been tearing up a little. He was a child again as Dean plugged in the TV and put in the tape: he had been given the last of the Lucky Charms for dinner, was watching the best cartoon ever and was hanging out with the coolest person ever: his brother.

"Thundercats, ho!" Sam laughed along with the crappy video tape. He didn't know why this was making him so happy. Then again, it wasn't hard to figure out. He and Dean, watching cartoons—what was not to love about this?

"And I got you one other thing, Sammy," Dean said, suddenly acting shy. "I was gonna save it for Christmas, but considering I just hung up on Dad I may actually not _live_ to see another Christmas—" it was a joke, but Sam still didn't like hearing it "and it's not much anyway," he went on. "So here."

Dean held up a shining silver thing—a key.

And not just any key.

"Dean!" Sam gasped. He was afraid to touch it. Was this a joke?

"As much as I hate the idea of you driving my baby, you being without a set of keys for her worries me even more. So Merry Christmas, Sammy. Your own key to the Impala."

Sam grinned, and, even though Dean had a strict no-chick-flick-moments rule, Sam blatantly ignored it and reached out to awkwardly one-arm-hug his brother. "You're the best, Dean."

"Now you better take care of her after I'm dead from Dad killing me…"

"Not funny, Dean."

"Again, I ain't laughing."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Jerk."

"Bitch."


End file.
